Chapter 30
Robert
“You okay?”
I ignore Sully’s question and throw a couple more hits at the heavy bag. Thankfully, it doesn’t give me any smack talk. My jaw hurts from clenching.
The thump-thump-thump of my fists on the bag drown out the spiraling, intrusive thoughts that have been festering since Taranis Morrigan’s quip about protecting Rhiannon from me.
“That’s cool. Ignore me, I can wait.” My best friend showing up first thing on a Monday morning smells like matriarchal intervention.
My gloves creak as I tighten my fists. I can’t breathe right.
It’s like every punch buys me another second of silence before my head fills again.
I’m tired of fighting ghosts that don’t exist outside my skull.
My muscles burn, legs ache, and sweat streams down my face.
I tried talking to Pete the Prick, told him I need more time to tweak my draft, but the fucker has already read it on our shared portal for work. There’s no talking him out of it. He said he’s added some bits and tidied it up.
My chest tightens. The last time someone said they’d “tidied up” my work, someone died. Different battlefield, same feeling of being stripped bare.
Mercifully, Pete agreed that he’d wait to let me add the finishing touches before we turn it in.
And by “finishing touches,” I mean try to smooth out those bumps that I know in my gut and my chest Rhiannon isn’t going to like.
I still have time.
I still have time.
But that doesn’t stop other reporters from sniffing around us like bloodhounds.
Fucking assholes.
“Did you see it?” My clenched fist slams into the punchbag, making it swing toward my best friend.
Sully returns the volley, sending the bag into me. “See what? The article from a piece of shit journalist, writing for a piece of shit newspaper, trashing my best friend for using the Raven’s fly-half for street cred?”
I glare at him, and he shrugs. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Ha.” There’s no humor in my voice. The article didn’t have any direct impact on Rhiannon or the team, but it’s just one other thread of scandal and drama right now that she doesn’t need. We’re trying to get her out of the spotlight, not make it fucking brighter.
Every time a publication mentions her name, she shrinks just a little bit more. And every headline feels like a sniper’s scope. Maybe that’s melodramatic, but my body doesn’t know the difference.
“Who called you? Mum?” Another few hits land on the bag with a thump-thump-thump as my internal war ratchets up to an eleven. Protect Rhiannon versus do my job.
The last time I tried to protect someone, I failed. Maybe that’s why I’m still trying to earn the right to breathe easy.
Thump-thump-thump.
Use her for the story versus keep my promise and abide by the rules.
Thump-thump-thump. With every punch, my brain screams I’m not good enough for this woman and need to leave her be. I’m no better than the other men in her life, and that’s what she needs. Better. More.
“Emma.” He folds his arms. “She couldn’t get hold of you, so she tried me.”
Traitor.
“Don’t give me that look, she’s worried about you. They both are.”
So, he did talk to Mum. He shows no signs of guilt but narrows his eyes like he’s clocked what I’m doing, trying to outrun, or outpunch my thoughts, but at least for now, he’s respecting my boundaries and not pressing me.
“Rob…”
I shake my head. Thump-thump-thump.
He brushes his fingers through his long hair. “Rob…” He tries again.
Sully has been a part of the family since we first met. He followed me home from school, pulled up a chair at the kitchen table, and flashed a toothless grin at Mum. Being who she is, she slapped together another jam sandwich, poured him a glass of orange cordial, and that was that.
He calls her Mum and even sends her gifts for Mother’s Day. Does he have his own mother? Does indeed. But there’s a distance they’ve never been able to close, and my mum has no expectations of him. They’re as close as any mother and son can be, blood related or not.
“As long as they’re dumping on me, they’re leaving someone else alone.” I give the bag another couple of thumps. And another. And another for good measure.
Sully leans against the doorframe of my home gym, crossing his ankles. “You should stop dumping on you. They’re dumping on you enough for everyone. And I was trying to say your hand’s wrapped wrong. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
He’s not wrong, about the hand or the news report.
He’s not wrong about the rest, either. I’ve been off for weeks. Headaches, chest tightness, insomnia.
The article was short, scathing, and reading a list of all my shortcomings in black and white wasn’t fun.
Who will protect her from me?
Thump-thump-thump. Sweat runs into my eyes.
Of course they dragged Rhiannon into the article this time. If they give me a week to regroup after this morning’s article before trashing either of us all over again, I’d be surprised. Ironically, they don’t even need to be out to get me. My brain already does that job perfectly.
Hell, I am surprised. I don’t know why they aren’t talking about someone more interesting, someone more high profile. But since word of my relationship with Rhiannon broke—thankfully no one knows that it’s fake—I seem to have a target on my back, and I’m staring down a clock.
Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
The hand counting down to submission day ticks loudly inside my mind, and I haven’t even made the decision to write about her. I haven’t slept for days.
When I do, I dream about sand and static. I wake up gasping, heart going like a drum, half expecting to find a gun instead of my phone. Then I see Rhiannon’s messages—breathe, you eejit—and remember I’m not there anymore.
Anger fizzling under my skin has me punching the crap out of the bag every morning, and still, I can’t shake this feeling of being caged.
I can’t say I don’t have a choice; we always have a choice, even if we don’t like our options. But having to put pen to paper about Rhiannon is harder than I thought I’d find it. And not just because of our agreement that I wouldn’t use our relationship to further my career.
Sully pushes away from the doorframe and walks behind me. After a moment and some shuffling, he reappears, boxing gloves in hand. “Want to hit someone who can hit you back?”
To be honest, part of me wants to go smack talk Taranis Morrigan and get him to dance with me, but in the absence of goading my fake girlfriend’s brother into a fight, I’ll take a couple of minutes sparring with my best friend.
His assessing stare prickles across my skin.
If anyone can see under my armor, into my darkness, it’s Niall O’Sullivan.
“I haven’t seen you like this in a long time, Rob.
Please, be careful.” I want to brush his concern away like an annoying fly, but I can’t.
I feel it too. The tiredness in public, the impatience, the restless nights, the brain gremlins are creeping back into my space, and it’s all compounded by the stress of my situation.
“What the fuck do I write about her, man?” I throw a one-two at him that he sidesteps with ease. I’m wound up, tired, and he’s coming in fresh. The odds aren’t exactly in my favor. “Something safe that won’t get her targeted further and won’t rip her to pieces.”
Every time I think I’ve got a grip, she smiles, and I realize I’m holding a knife.
“Write about the state of women’s rugby in Northern Ireland,” Sully suggests, blocking my next volley of punches and returning a couple of his own.
I blow him a raspberry. “You think that’ll be enough to steer my bloodthirsty editor away from her?”
The way he flexes his jaw tells me he doesn’t believe it any more than I do.
“What about using Rhiannon as a case study in a broader piece about injury risk, media pressure, and leadership in sport? With the fundraiser benefit next week, the timing would work.” He grins at me. I know that look.
“What?”
He cants his head. “If you wanna be ballsy, you could write an op-ed about the toxic media circus that female athletes face. Give the middle finger to your editor, your colleagues, your peers…”
That doesn’t sound like something I’d do at all. My lips twitch.
“If you wanted to blend journalism with sensationalism, you could write about her recovery arc. Her self-discovery and ambitions after leaving a toxic relationship.”
I hold up a hand. “You know I’m not writing some Eat, Pray, Love shit about my girlfriend.” Or Hot Girl Healing for that matter, either.
“She’d never bang you again, my friend.” He grins.
“You should do my job. Some of those ideas aren’t bad.”
He scoffs. “Not bad? Gold, Rob. Any of those articles would sell papers. Assuming paper sales are still even a thing. Are physical newspapers from the olden days?” He loves ribbing me about what I do.
“Fuck you.”
“For someone who writes for a living, you could do some work on your vocabulary. I should buy you a dictionary for Christmas, and a thesaurus. That might help you write about Rhiannon Morrigan. The woman, the myth, the fucking legend.”
His voice is filled with awe. “Still can’t believe you pulled her.”
I can’t either, but he doesn’t need to hear my crippling self-doubt out loud. I drag my shirt over my head, wiping my sweat as I do, before tossing it onto the floor. “Again.”
He shakes his head before he squares up to me, and just as I’m about to strike, the doorbell chimes. “I’ll get it. It’s probably your sister. You know what she’s like.”
He disappears to get the door, so I take the opportunity to drink some water, squirting some over my face to cool me down. Despite it being late June, it’s not that hot. My blood is heating from the inside.
When Sully doesn’t instantly reappear, I smile to myself. He’s probably scheming with Emma, trying to find some way to make me “calm down” and reset. After a beat or two, footsteps approach my home gym.
“Well, what’d she say?” I don’t turn to face the door. “Is she staying to guilt-trip me over the dinner table?”
“You seeing other women behind my back, McAllister?” Rhiannon’s amused voice comes from behind me making me start and turn to face her.
“It wasn’t Emma,” Sully chimes in, looking like the cat that got the cream as he stands behind my fake girlfriend. “It was your woman.”
She throws an elbow into his gut, making him grunt. “I have a name, you know.”
“I think I’m in love,” Sully wheezes, clutching his stomach, one blink away from proposing on the spot.
He’s always been a player, a ladies’ man, someone who would flirt with his own shadow if he thought it would flirt back, but he’s a good man and would never make a move on my other half. I trust that man with my life.
“From what I’ve read about you, Niall O’Sullivan, the only person you love is yourself.” She rolls her eyes.
“A man can change, Ms. Morrigan. Leave Rob. Marry me.” He drops to his knees. What an absolute gobshite. If he smiled any harder, he’d pull something.
She flicks between his eyebrows with a well-placed forefinger. “My heart belongs to another. And I can’t fucking skate.”
He gives her his most dazzling smile, but her eyes have landed on my half-naked body and widened.
I know lust when I see it, and the fire flickering in her eyes makes me want to preen just a little. “You okay?”
“Me?” She points at herself. “You’re being raked over the coals in today’s paper, and you’re asking if I’m okay?” She shakes her head. “Cute. I stopped on my way to practice to check if you’re okay. If you want to bail on this weekend…”
“He doesn’t. He’s not.” Sully steps forward and slaps my pec, drawing Rhiannon’s attention back to my sweaty, bare skin. “He’s got his penguin suit ready.”
She tucks her hands into her back pockets. “You sure?”
Sully opens his mouth to answer, but she slaps her hand over it, her brows jerking up. “Are you sure?”
I love that she’s not taking any of his shit. He probably does, too. He gets off on it. Nothing gets him wound up more than a strong woman who can hold her own.
I nod. “I’m still in for the benefit.”
She squeals and snatches her hand away, making a show of wiping it on her pants. Sully has either licked or bitten her hand because she’s glaring at him. “Fucking man-child.”
“Thanks.” All he fucking does is grin. “I like her.”
I cover my face with my palm. “There aren’t enough sorries in the world for… him.”
She gives me a small smile. “We don’t apologize for other people’s actions, remember?” She toes the tip of my trainer. “A few of us are going out on Saturday.”
For her birthday, but she doesn’t say that, nor does she meet my eyes. She stares, instead, somewhere around my belly button.
“You don’t have to come, especially since we’ll be together on Friday night, but I wanted to invite you.”
I’m not sure if we’re being awkward because Sully is waggling his eyebrows at me, or what, but something has shifted between Rhiannon and me, and my pulse is racing.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re doing bottomless brunch in town, then karaoke. Or at least that’s what they’ve told me. I have a strong suspicion that there’s a surprise party in the works.”
“Sounds like fun. You sure you don’t want to keep it family only?”
She looks at her feet, so I hook my knuckle under her chin and tip her head up. “I don’t mind if you need to do some things by yourself, you know.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “I’d like you to come.”
Sully drapes his arm across my now-cool shoulders. “We’d love to.”
I smack him on his rock-hard stomach. “You’re not invited.”
He stares at her, and she doesn’t say a word. “She didn’t say no.”
She blows out an exasperated sigh. “I need to get to training, but let me know?”
I brush my thumb across her face before she pulls away. “I’m in, for the fundraiser on Friday, your birthday on Saturday, and the Morrigan firing line on Sunday.” I wink at her, making her smile. “For the ’gram, right?”
“Gotta keep the social cred up. Give people stuff to distract them from the arseholes posting crap about you.”
I nod. We’re on the same page. On the pitch, she doesn’t look to shine… she looks to make the women next to her shine.
Right now, she’s here in my home, trying to make sure I don’t lose my shine.
And from the looks my best friend is giving me, he knows I’m fucking screwed when it comes to this woman.